Reality
by ThatClutzsarahh
Summary: They never really broke up because they never really were together.


Chaos.

It's the word Peter chose to describe Olivia's arrival to their side again. It was, complete and utter chaos. She returned, half cut apart and hopelessly beaten, struggling against even his arms as he tried to hold her. She was wild, bleeding profusely from her forehead, a large gash running across it. And as he tried to soothe her and calm her she collapsed in his arms, limp and fragile from blood loss and exhaustion. And in the midst of all this, Olivia, the other one, had escaped. But that hardly mattered to him now. He'd said his peace with her and she fled with a terrified look, cloaked by a fake look of anger.

They all sat with Olivia at Massive Dynamic, the reality that she would live was far off in the distance, but they all believed for it. Even Broyles believed she'd be okay. So they all stayed with her for the first week, sleeping in the room day and night, but as the week turned into a month, Peter found himself to be the only one sticking around for 24 hours 7 days a week. It was during this time, when she wasn't surrounded by a throng of people that Peter could really see what happened to her over there.

Sometimes she'd twisted around in her sheets and murmur to herself, other times she'd let loose a blood-curling scream that would jolt Peter from his skin, shaking him into lucidity from a groggy sleep. But he'd touch her hand and she'd relax and sigh into it, often purring underneath it. And then on rare occasion she'd let out a moan or a gasp and Peter reveled in the way she thought of him, until one night when he realized just exactly what occurred to her. His fingers had brushed against her arm and she sighed at the touch, inhaling deeply.

"Frank," she murmured in a content tone. Peter froze and looked away that night, staring at the blank wall. She tossed over and sighed again, releasing Peter's hand from her own.

Sometimes she'd get scared and she'd yell out for Frank or murmur her mothers name or hollered that the Secretary was hurting her. Sometimes she'd beg to the Secretary to let her go or plead with Colonel Broyles to help her leave. Sometimes she'd laugh and say Lincoln or scream and say Lincoln or murmur his name. And the whole while she slept, she never once murmured his name.

They had replaced her memories with the other hers. Brandon and the scientists told him that she'd have holes in her own memories, she'd likely not remember certain moments in time, that they would come back to her but not right away. She'd likely remember her happiest times first, they told him, she'd remember Ella and Rachel first, followed by her team, Astrid, Walter and himself, and then certain other things. She'd remember confessions and confrontations last because those appeared to traumatize her the most. And that was what hurt him the most. Her confession to him would come to her last, meaning they would have no history together for a while.

It was relief, for the moment to him, because he'd have enough time to explain himself to himself before explaining himself to her. But all this was based on speculation that she actually ever woke up from her slumber and that she recognized her world. But he doesn't know if she would ever wake and that thought alone scares him. If she died it'd be his fault somehow, he'd find a way, and he'd never forgive himself or his real father on the other side. But she never did manage to die and she woke up a week after the news, two months since her return.

They were right about her. She was confused at first. When she awoke, her eyes flung open wide open and she inhaled deeply, her lungs flooding with air she didn't recognize. She had seen Peter first and was confused. She called him Mr. Bishop. She wouldn't call him Peter. She asked for the Secretary. She asked for Lincoln. Peter couldn't give her an answer. His heart was broken. She would look at him but not recognize him. He, in turn, would give her the same glance, because in truth, he didn't know her either.

But she came around, slowly. She returned home under the watchful eye of her sister, who had helped him sweep out his personal items before her moving back in. Rachel knew what had transpired between him and the other her but looked at him with pity-filled eyes and turned her cheek to her sister and him. After all, it was a problem to be worked out between the two of them and it was not any of her business.

Olivia watched him with new eyes. Not literally new eyes, but in a new way. He could feel the way her eyes would rake over his body when he stood in the lab with his back to her. He could feel her mesmerizing patterns that she traced over his skin and he could shiver under the gaze. She watched him and studied him like he was something new and off limits, a person that she knew she'd never have. And it went on like this, her continual studious gazes over his flesh as she tried to place the context of the pulls of her heartstrings until one day, one moment.

There was a heart stopping sound in the lab, the shattering of glass as it hit the marble floor of Massive Dynamic. Peter spun on an instinct, staring at a shocked Olivia as she stared at her hands, both of them bloodied a bit from the glass. Her green eyes met with his for a brief instant and he realized that she knew, and that she knew everything.

"Liv-" he started, but she fled faster than he could have ever imagined, straight through the doors and out into the hall, where he could have chased her out into the streets. But he wasn't that man, he never had been, and so he watched her retreating form, his own fingers going slack and falling limp at his sides.

Olivia realized that the world had carried on the same in her absence. It didn't take her long to see that. But everything changed when she was gone. Nothing remained the same. And when she finally came to, to have fully restored her memories, the glass shattered under her grip as the emotions flooded her entire form so quickly. And with Peter's glance she realized that something had gone terribly wrong.

Which is how she ended up here, in the bathtub, fully clothed and pitifully downing a bottle of red wine by herself. Rachel had left her to some time alone, which she took so gratefully, and she allowed soft piano music to play throughout the apartment, blocking out the sound of Peter entering the place and walking to the bathroom. She had been staring at the blank wall when he appeared at the door. She turned her head to meet his gaze, level and easy.

"Hey," he whispered.

"Hi," she mirrored, equally as soft as his voice. She moves to stand but he stops her.

"I'll be quick, I promise," he answers, lying and hoping that she'll allow him to remain. But she nods and he must think of something to say.

"How do you feel?" he asks but regrets instantly as she turns her face away.

"Tired," she answered simply. He nods. He walks the distance between them and sinks against the outside of the tub, facing the door. There is a silence between them.

Peter stares out the door and into the hallway, where intimate memories meant for him and Olivia rest just behind his eyes. He wants to tell her so badly, so awfully badly about what he's done and what it's been like, but she doesn't allow him to open his mouth because she speaks first.

"I had to get out of there," she whispers delicately, "It was so strange."

"I understand," Peter answered quietly. The silence was light between them, yet it brought an unmeasured amount of safety to them both. He heard her take another sip of red wine before she sighed and looked at the ceiling tiles that were ahead of her.

"You didn't know, did you?" she says. She pauses, waiting for his answer. He knows it won't be what she wants to hear, rather than what she knows she'll hear.

"I didn't," he answers, "I didn't know until you told the lady in New York you were stuck."

"Oh," Olivia answers. The two tiny letters broke his heart. Was that all they were reduced to now two letter words and five second phrases?

"I don't know what to say," He says finally.

"I don't know what I want to hear," she whispers aloud. She sighs. He inhales deeply, he was going to tell her everything.

"Things were off," he starts, "But I hardly noticed because I finally was dating you. Or you were dating me, however you wanted to look at it. So I overlooked things because I wanted to. I overlooked the little things that were so off. I even told her-or you- that you were acting different, as if you were a whole new person. But I overlooked it, even when we-"

He stops there because he knows what he was just about to say. He inhales and exhales, both breaths shakier than ever before. He knows that she knows why he stalled there, but he isn't prepared for what she's about to say next.

"I slept with him," she says.

"Who?" Peter asks, turning around to face her. He's slightly shocked that she slept with someone when she was well aware that he was a figment in her mind.

"Lincoln," she says, not meeting his eyes. The silence is thick between them and Peter feels the blood within him boiling. Did she do it out of spite? Out of anger or resentment?

"Why?" he says a little harsher than he intended. She finally turns her head to look at him, both her eyes glazed with liquor and a bit of shock and a lot of hurt.

"Why did you sleep with her?" she counters, equally as upset.

"I thought she was you," he answers without a second thought. She recoils from a bit of hurt and turns her face away from him to shrug.

"It was something she did," she answers. He turns and looks at her, eyebrows furrowed and puzzled. She shakes her head.

"When I was there," she says, "I wasn't myself for three weeks. I was her. I had her memories, her instincts and so on. So when Tuesdays rolled around I found myself at Lincoln's door, her boss. So we slept together."

"How many?" he asks, "How many times?"

"3. The third time I was myself pretending to pretend to be her."

Peter doesn't know what to say so he turns his head and looks out into the hallway.

"I slept with her," he says simply, knowing she won't prod.

"Oh," she manages and it sounds weak and flimsy. She stares at the wall and feels the warmth of silent tears on her cheeks. She inhales and exhales deeply, unable to talk.

"Hey," he whispers, pulling her attention to him. She didn't even know he'd flipped around to face her, but he had. She meets his gaze and he sucks in his lower lip before knitting his brows and exhaling. His fingers touch her cheek and she flinches at it, unable to stands his fingers on her. He looks down and then up at her.

"I did it so I would be alive," she whispers, her voice so small, "But you didn't."

"I know," he answers. And they remain staring at each other for a long while. She lets the tears fall on her face gently but does not let loose any indicating sob. He watches her face and then tears his eyes away from her, turning his back to her again. If she wants to plant knives in his skin, he'll allow the sweet pain from her, at least for the moments. He hears her sip from the bottle and set it down between her legs.

"There's nothing left," she whispers after a moment, "It's all gone." She pauses for a few minutes before she clarifies. "I threw it all out. Everything. I'm sorry if you cared for what was yours."

"None of it mattered to me anyway," he murmurs, listening as she's trying to find a place to dig and spur into him. She doesn't know it yet, but that spot is fully occupied by his planted spurs, digging deeper into the farthest corners of his heart and mind. But she's like liquid fire, dripping down those spurs and lighting fire to the darkest spots in his mind. Nothing's faster than light, but darkness always seems to be there first.

"It's time for you to go," she says and he hears her beginning to stand. He doesn't move and she steps over him and into the hallway, where he really sees her for the first time that night.

She's frail and weak looking, but don't tell her that. She's building this wall that's starting at her feet, altering her stance and walk, and she won't stop until she's completely safe, a point in which no man would ever get to her heart again.

He panics at this, panics because he knows it's her he loves, whether anyone wants to believe him or not. She must've seen this in his eyes because she gives him a faint smile, a small tight lipped smile and a nod that he notes has a little bit of tension (or hurt) behind it.

"We're good," she says, "Don't-"

"We're not good, Olivia," he says, a little harsher than he intends, but he wants to inflict a little bit of pain on her. "You're closing off."

"I need time Peter," she answers, pointing him towards the door. He doesn't want to go, but this fight isn't going to be worth anything good. With a long face he sucks in his bottom lip and lets it out, eyes drifting from the floor then up to her. Her expression is hurting, but he can see the wall shifting, changing. It will accommodate him.

Eventually.

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